


When the world is burning

by Beleriandings



Series: In the midst of the innumerable stars [11]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Brother Feels, Gen, Silmarils, War of Wrath
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:25:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5574361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry Káno.” Maedhros transferred the Silmaril to the crook of his right arm, typing in the keycode to open the inner door. “Sorry that it had to end like this. But there is nothing else, all is at an end.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the world is burning

“Nelyo, we need more speed, more power. They’re going to send someone after us, this has to be a trap, we have to…”

“There’s nothing on the radar. Look.”

Maglor’s brow furrowed as he peered at the radar screen, empty but for the spray of asteroids through which they were weaving as they left the orbit of the planet that had once been called Hithlum. The system was filled with debris now, after the destruction of the dark planet of Angband, blown up at the last by the host of the Valar in their great battleships, almost the size of small planets themselves.

But Hithlum remained, and there Eonwë had made planetfall and fortified a war camp, a surface base for the transfer of supplies and weapons, a place for the commanders of the host of the Valar to meet.

It was the place where Eonwë had invited Maglor and Maedhros to report to, when he sent the formal notice commanding them to surrender themselves.

It was also, of course, where the Silmarils were.

And it was the planet they had made for now, though with no intention of surrendering. Maglor had long given up trying to persuade his brother to do so. He supposed he had known all along that he would follow where Maedhros led, in the end. He always had, and he wasn’t going to stop now.

Thus their paths had led them to the familiar planet once more - familiar, yes, and yet changed beyond recognition, its surface burned and scoured and cratered by asteroids, its atmosphere poisoned, become oppressive as fine dusty debris rained down from orbit - and they had landed not far from the camp, hidden themselves amongst the radiation-blasted rocks of what had once been a hospitable greenworld, lovingly terraformed by the Sindar before the Noldor even came to this system.

The camp was almost a city in size, albeit one composed entirely of lightweight, durable temporary shelters of shining white polymer composite, to keep out the dust storms and the worst of the radiation on the surface. Anar had looked huge overhead, a great, red disk through the choking haze, too large in the eyes of the two brothers who had grown used to living far out on the further reaches of the system these last years, lonely stragglers far from the other survivors of the devastating wars that had all but torn the Beleriand system apart.

There were guards, Maglor knew, the finest that Aman had to provide. He also knew that when the guards let them through it should have alerted him that this was not as simple as it looked.

They had, however, gotten what they had come for.

There had been a fight, yes, but it had been short. Soon enough they were surrounded, the Silmarils clutched to Maglor’s chest in their lightweight metal case, his gun in his other hand, and Maedhros at his back, aiming his own blaster at the soldiers who surrounded them. They had stood back to back like that for a long time, with no one moving, waiting for Eonwë to order his soldiers to shoot. Maglor did not know how long it had been. He had lost track of time, and all there was was him and Maedhros and the jewels in their case, and he had thought suddenly, _yes. If we must die, then perhaps it is best like this. Together, and desperate, fighting at the last. The Oath fulfilled. It would not be so bad._

 _Though I would rather we lived_ …

In the end, the choice had not been his to make. “Stand down” came Eonwë’s voice, tinny on the PA system that covered the camp. “All units stand down. Do not engage with the sons of Fëanor. I repeat, do not engage with the sons of Fëanor. Stand down.”

And so, as quickly as that, they had returned to their battered old ship and set off, Maedhros firing the engines into growling life as Maglor held the case in which the Silmarils rested. He couldn’t stop looking at it, as they took off from the planet’s surface, as they passed into transfer orbit, as they made their way out into the asteroid belt. It drew the eye, though it was merely a smallish rectangular case of lightweight aluminium, and quite ordinary looking. It had a combination lock, but no greater security than that, as far as Maglor could see.

_Could this really be it? Could this be the end? Or would they wake from this, and return to the real world? Would they find that this was but the wild imaginings of a lost spirit dreaming fitfully in the Halls of Mandos, soon to wake and find itself falling to the black Void outside of space and time itself?_

_Or was it real? When they opened the box, would the Silmarils truly lie within?_

“If no one is following us…” said Maglor, glancing at the box again.

Maedhros’ hollowed, weary eyes followed his. “We should open it.”

They looked at each other for a long moment.

Then Maglor nodded, and Maedhros pulled his laser blaster from its holster at his belt. “Stand back, Káno.”

There was a shriek of tearing, burning metal, as Maedhros’ shot blew up the lock on the case. “Saves us having to guess the combination” he said, with a bitter twist of a smile. He stood back, raising an eyebrow at Maglor.

Maglor understood. His eyes locked with his brother’s, he stepped forward with a deep breath, lifting the lid - still smoking a little from the blast - revealing what lay within.

Maglor caught his breath.

There, nestled in the cut black foam designed to hold them were the Silmarils, two brilliant glowing spheres whose very light made Maglor choke with memory, old recollections hitting him like a physical blow to the chest.

Their father in his workshop, wearing dark goggles and heavy gloves, the pips of his radiation counter making a staccato rhythm. Maedhros’ face lit by white brilliance and wonder both, as Fëanor let his eldest son hold his greatest works for the first time. Maglor had been next, of course; he had always wanted to do everything that Maedhros could, his dearest brother, his greatest friend. His other brothers looking on in wonder. Fëanor had taken the jewels away again after they had all held them, locking them away with reverential care.

 _They will power this whole system one day,_ Fëanor had told them _. Maybe others too. They will bring light and warmth to the outer reaches, power great ships and engines, carry us to systems beyond our own. With these, the whole universe is ours_ , he had said, his eyes shining, and Maglor had believed him then, whole-heartedly. They all had.

The jewels lit the inside of the little cramped cabin in white brilliance, and Maedhros’ face seemed to glow with their light as he stared, transfixed, his eyes wide. Maglor thought his brother looked younger than he had in years; in direct light, the scars upon his face, the ridges and furrows, were barely there at all, as though the restorative power of the jewels had somehow, impossibly, made him the shining figure of Maglor’s early memories, a chance to be something other than the haggard and broken kinslayer, the one who had taken a thousand lives and more. Maglor wondered, briefly, if he looked like that too, but he did not dwell on it; the draw of the jewels was too great, seeming to take his whole attention, leaving no space in his mind for any thoughts else, almost. Perhaps that was the Oath, though; its power was strange like that, sometimes, Maglor had grown to realise.

Maedhros looked up at him, swallowing. There was a strange expression in his eyes, mingled pain and joy and a deep fear, the kind that shakes the very core of a person. “One more thing” he whispered, almost too low for Maglor to hear. “One more test.”

Maglor furrowed his brow, not understanding. “What do you mean?”

“You take one” said Maedhros, his breath shuddering in his chest as though he were struggling to remain calm. “I’ll take the other.”

Maglor nodded. It seemed right. _Two remaining brothers, two remaining jewels. Yes, we were meant to have them_. The thought gave him heart.

Slowly, he extended his hand into the space between them, even as Maedhros did the same.

His hand closed over the jewel’s surface and he lifted it.

For the merest moment, everything was just as it should be.

Then his world went white as burning, jangling agony shot from his palm up his arm and through his whole body, loosening him and tearing him apart, it seemed. The pain was more than he could bear and he tried to let go, a reflex action to loose his fingers and let the thing that was burning him fall, but he found he seemed to have lost control of his hand. Dimly, he realised he was screaming, kneeling upon the slatted floor of the cabin as his vision cleared and then fogged again, sickening waves of agony jolting through him, his own screams tearing his throat and resounding discordantly in his mind. Or perhaps they were Maedhros’ screams too; he realised his brother too had fallen to his knees, his legs giving way beneath him as he clung to the jewel desperately, even as it seared his flesh from the bones of his one remaining hand.

Maglor dropped to one side, nearly hitting his head against the control panel, before he caught himself, regaining - for a moment at least - enough lucidity to draw himself up, his breaths coming fast and irregular, catching in his throat as the pain made his chest convulse with sobs and cries, and yet he still could not let go.

He looked over at Maedhros. “Brother…” but Maglor, the poet, the spokesman and herald and signaler, the cataloguer and the recorder his whole life long, suddenly had no words. Perhaps there were no words left in the world, he thought, his mind nearly blank with agony.

Time passed, but Maglor had no idea how much; he seemed to have lost his grip on time, his whole world a haze of pain.

“Káno” Maedhros managed with difficulty, drawing himself up into one of the two pilot’s chairs. He was breathing hard, and Maglor watched in mild curiosity - in the small part of his mind that was not clouded by pain - as Maedhros opened his hand, laying down the Silmaril upon the broken console, keeping it steady with the stump of his right wrist. Maedhros seemed calm, almost, Maglor thought, even as he let pain consume his own body and mind, slipping in and out of consciousness. Maedhros’ face was sheened with sweat, his eyes - tears welling in them - were fever bright, keen and narrowed. He no longer looked young, or unscarred; the light of the jewel illuminated his face from the side now, picking out every place where his skin had been cut and healed wrong, ever jagged tear, every ridge and furrow and line of pain in stark light and shade. He looked old now, in fact, older than the world, his shoulders slumped with all its cares. But his eyes were still bright, terrifyingly so, his teeth gritted together as he stared down at the controls in the brilliant light of the Silmaril.

Maglor cradled his own, barely even registering what Maedhros was doing. He felt he could let go now, if he wanted to; his fingers would straighten, open, if he could find the will to tell them to. But now from nowhere he felt a strange compulsion to hold on. He doubted the pain would stop even if he did let go. _And besides, do we not deserve this pain?_

He clutched the Silmaril close to him in both hands, gazing at Maedhros, aware suddenly that tears were running freely down both his cheeks. For the first time he looked at Maedhros’ hand upon the ship’s controls.

Immediately he sprang to his feet, the Silmaril falling from his palms burned raw by its light.

They were turning, the whole ship was setting a new course, back towards the centre of the system. Anar already looked larger on the display screens and through the glass ahead, a great blinding sphere.

“Nelyo! What are you… you’ll drive us straight into Anar, our heat shields will fail, we’ll burn up…”

Maglor’s voice faltered as Maedhros turned to look at him, his eyes dull and dead, bloodshot. Maedhros opened his mouth as though to speak, but the words never came. Suddenly, they seemed unnecessary. Maglor understood, in that one look, all he needed to know.

“Maitimo… my brother, there are other ways…”

“There’s an escape pod” said Maedhros slowly, the words seeming to come from far away as static from the ship’s radio roared in Maglor’s ears; there was so much radiation in this ring of the system now that any attempt at radio communication was useless. It really was just the two of them, alone at the end. “Take it.” He pulled on the accelerator ratchet, with a sharp tug, too much strength going into it. _The engines were burning too much fuel, this was not sustainable_ … A tear rolled down Maedhros’ cheek. He seemed not to notice. “Or don’t. It is not for me to tell you either way.”

“Nelyo, I know what you’re doing…”

Maedhros’ eyes narrowed, fury suddenly sparking in them, the anger of a trapped animal in pain. “Would you try to stop me?”

“I…” Maglor stared back at him, angry now too. Then he subsided, breathing out all at once. “…No.”

Maedhros said nothing but turned back to the controls.

The warning lights began to flash, after a while, a klaxon sounding. The heat shields were failing, Maglor thought. _The cooling system will burn out soon, we will burn, we will both burn together, and better the world may be for it_ …

“Káno.”

He looked at his brother, who had been at the controls the whole time. Maedhros flicked a switch, and a soft, pulsing glow flared into life above their heads. Auto-coursing, Maglor realised. “Where have you set the ship to go?” He knew the answer, but he asked anyway.

“Out” said Maedhros, standing up with a heavy sigh. “Out, away from Anar. This system is burning, planets breaking up, their orbits destabilised. It will not last long.” They both gazed out at the brilliant burning globe of the star, too bright to look at. “But the ship will carry you away, if that is your will.”

Maglor blinked. This was not what he had expected. “Me alone? What will you do?”

Maedhros smiled, a twist of his mouth that held no joy, only agony and sorrow. He seemed to brace himself, then picked up the Silmaril once more, letting out a gasp of pain, biting down on his lip so hard that Maglor saw blood there. Yet still Maedhros clutched the jewel, holding his head high as he strode across the narrow walkway to the airlock bay.

And suddenly Maglor knew.

“Maitimo, no, no, I can’t live without you, please, don't…”

“I’m sorry Káno.” Maedhros transferred the Silmaril to the crook of his right arm, typing in the keycode to open the inner door. “Sorry that it had to end like this. But there is nothing else, all is at an end.”

“Nelyo…”

“I’ll see you in the dark, perhaps, brother.”

“ _Airlock sequence initiated._ ”

Maedhros was in the airlock, the doors closed behind him, flat and cold metal. Maglor ran to them, in sudden anger, the Silmaril forgotten on the floor behind him even as countdown began. “Maitimo! Nelyo! You’re not wearing a suit, you’ll die, this is madness, this is… this is…”

“ _Ten_.”

“No, you can’t, you can’t do this to me, you can’t leave me! Brother!”

“ _Nine.”_

 _“Eight._ ”

“Come back, come back! Remember…”

“ _Seven._ ”

“Russandol! We called you that once, remember? Remember mother, father, our brothers, remember…”

“ _Six.”_

_“Five.”_

_“Four._ ”

“Remember when Findekáno saved you? You came back, he saved your life, you survived! And what a story it made. Nelyo!”

“ _Three_.”

“Brother! I can't… I can’t go on alone…” he was drawing breath irregularly now, broken by pain, by anger and hurt. “Please! Let… let me go with you, at least!”

“ _Two_.”

He had no more words left. He hammered on the doors, uselessly, pain exploding in his burnt hands even as blood and fluid seeped from his clenched fists.

“ _One_.”

“Come back… please…” his voice was gone, a mere cracked whisper. It did nothing.

A great, sucking, hissing sound. “Depressurising airlock.”

“ _Nelyo!_ ”

The sounds of sliding doors, then silence.

Silently, numbly, Maglor raised himself from where he had slid down the closed inner doors. He raised his head, stumbling to the front windows to gaze out, not caring about the burning light of Anar dazzling him, carving a glowing circle in his vision that was the twin of the one the Silmaril had made.

_There._

A bright point of light, careening in a wide arc. Its trajectory was away from the ship, towards the hungry fires of the star, losing orbital height all the time. That brilliant spark of white fire - _and was that red hair, catching the light of Anar for just a moment_? - would spiral inwards, before burning up in the devouring, uncaring heats of the star.

Maglor slumped forward over the broken console, his face wet with tears, even as he felt the ship began to turn.

 _The ship will carry you away, if that is your will_. Maedhros’ words sounded in his head. He was surprised he remembered them, but he did. He had always had a knack for words, everyone had said so.

 _There’s an escape pod. Take it. Or don’t_.

Maglor straightened up, once more unsure how much time had passed. Anar certainly seemed much farther away now; he realised the ship was passing through the asteroid belt once more. There was ice here, he suddenly remembered, ice and clouds of sublimating water vapour from the destruction of Nevrast, the small ocean planet that was the sister planet of Hithlum. Or all the ruined planets in the system, the tiny, abandoned waterworld had perished early, caught in the crossfire as the host of the Valar had destroyed Angband. It had scattered its water in a great band, a ring of rocky ice and vapour that would likely remain until Anar expanded, burning away all in its path.

“Strange” said Maglor out loud, thinking back to Maedhros, that speck of brightness spiralling closer and closer to the star “how fire and water can exist so close together, side by side.”

No one answered him, of course. 

He leaned down, his limbs suddenly stiff, his body painful, muscles protesting. There it was, the Silmaril, sitting innocuously on the floor. Maglor picked it up.

He was ready for the burning this time, and so it didn’t bring with it the same blinding disorientation as before. The pain itself was not _less_ , precisely; rather it seemed different now, duller, pounding in his head, setting every nerve in his body singing in discordant harmony. He felt like the jewel was eating him from the inside out, even though he only held it in his hands; _it would burn through him, consume him… perhaps even that was for the best._

Outside, Anar was growing smaller, distant. He looked at the airlock doors for a long time, thinking about what would happen if he were to do what his brother had done, and simply release his body into the frozen vacuum of space. The pain in his hands seemed to serve to detach him, almost, and he found himself thinking about his own death in very practical terms. _The decompression would cause bubbles to form in the blood, and the lungs to collapse perhaps, and then oxygen deprivation… and would that be more or less painful than the burning of the jewel?_

 _Well. Only one way to find out_.

He might even have done it too, he would think later. He very nearly did; it would have been easy enough.

But instead, he merely stood for a long time, the Silmaril’s burning pain filling up his consciousness as grief flooded him, a moment of quiet. And it _was_ quiet now, he realised, truly silent. The alarm had stopped sounding long ago, the console had been broken - they had been flying with manual controls for years, the two of them - and the full knowledge of just how alone he truly was filled his heart.

 _Alone and quiet… is this all that the house of Fëanor is to come to? A nothingness, a silence, after the storm? Would no one speak for them_? _Would their deeds not go down in the histories, would no tales be brought to the next star system, when this one succumbed to the ravages of time and war, or the expansion of the star at its centre?_

Maglor frowned, as a pale mass of rock and ice hurtled alarmingly close to the ship.

And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

With a deep breath, he opened his hand once more, his palm - flesh horribly burned, nearly to the bone - tilting to let the jewel fall to the floor in the cabin.

The escape pod. Where was it? _Ah yes, it was down in the cargo bay_.

He did not look back.

* * *

“ _Escape sequence initiated_.”

The ship looked small, Maglor remembered thinking as he pulled away in the escape pod, his mind still hazy with pain and with the choice that he was making. That was good, perhaps. In this ring of ice, it would get broken up soon, or it would be subsumed as the ice that was accreting together, forming larger objects, comets. The Silmaril, the light that burned eternal, would become the heart of an icy comet one day, perhaps.

Fire and water, he thought. And the last, upon the ship of Eärendil, orbiting the system until Anar flared and died, and then beyond into the future. The Silmaril would carry on, would light the building of a new system by the Valar, he knew, the shaping of new artificial planets, the terraforming and the inhabiting and the living that would take place. People going about their lives, as the Silmaril arced overhead.

He cared little for them, of course, but he had to admit there was a certain poetry to it.

Fire and water and air. Yes, that was good. He could not have come up with better if he had tried.

He looked around the cramped escape pod. The engines were small but designed to last, the power usage low. There were some emergency supplies tucked away beneath the controls. It was all he needed, really, and it could keep him alive for some time at least.

_Alive for what?_

There was also a signal beacon. He frowned as he gazed at the switch.

 _If I am the last one left, then at the least I can make sure that this cruel universe remembers us. Though I drift out upon the edges of the system, or in the black vastness of space, a lonely traveller fading into oblivion, at least the radio signal will travel. In a hundred years, a thousand, a million or a billion, some civilisation will receive it, and they will know. Even if they cannot understand, at the very least there will be something left_ , _a weak radio signal tracing its course through the universe at the speed of light, cutting a path through time and space to the receiver of anyone who would only listen for it._

Later, he would bind up his burned hands, ease his pain. But first, there was something he had to do.

He pressed his thumb down on the button to begin the recording, and tiny green light came on. _Recording and broadcasting_.

And Maglor began to sing.


End file.
